Chapter Text
“Barton, report to the bridge.” The Director’s voice barked at the agent through his earpiece. Clint put down the novel that he had been reading, stood up, and stretched. He then promptly walked out the door of his “apartment” and into the halls of the Helicarrier. He briskly trotted down the hallways of the giant aircraft, ignoring the distrustful, pitying, and angry stares sent his way.
Nobody but Hill, Fury, and the Avengers really truly trusted him anymore, not after the Loki incident. He, Clint, had killed good agents, some of which had been his friends. Almost every night, he would wake up in cold sweat from nightmares about them calling his name, asking why he did it. Why he murdered them in cold blood. He would respond that he’s sorry. That he never wanted any of them to die.
Those that sent the pitying glances thought that they knew what he was going through. They didn’t. They had no idea.
Then there were the suspicious ones. They didn’t trust Clint after what he did. The archer didn’t blame them. He still had a hard time trusting himself. Then, there were the haters. Most were agents that just hadn’t liked him in the first place, continuously looking for an excuse to insult him. Many would call out in the hallways: “Hey, Barton! Maybe if you hadn’t survived, those agents never would have died!” or “Never miss a shot, right Barton? Too bad you didn’t!”
Three months ago, the speaker would have had to be stuck in the sick bay for at least a month. Now, though, Clint would just turn away and pretend to ignore them. But in reality, he knew what they said was true. If Loki had just killed him, or if he missed his shots, the deceased agents would still be alive.
The other angry glances came from close friends or family to the people he had killed. They had every reason to be mad at him, so Clint wasn’t going to argue. He had killed their partners, spouses, and siblings, for goodness’ sake! If one of them had killed Natasha, he would have glared too.
The avenging archer finally reached the Bridge after enduring a multitude of stares and glances. He spotted Director Fury at his Control Stand.
“You wanted me, Director?” His voice was a little rough from lack of use.
“I do. I have a mission for you. If you come this way, I will tell you about it.” Fury walked out of the bridge and to one of the ‘rooms’ (Clint thought that they were medium-sized closets) used for disclosing secret information.
“You’re op is an undercover. I know Agent Romanoff usually takes these, but the job requirement called for a male.”
Clint raised an eyebrow. He knew the real reason he’d been given the op.
The Director ignored him. “You will be an analyst. We’ll pull you as soon as you complete your mission. Everything you need to know is on this.” He gestured to a StarkFolder in his hand. “Understood?”
Fury glared at Clint with his single eye. “Yes, sir,” Barton replied. “But why do I have a desk job?”
Fury threw the Folder at the agent, who caught it easily. “As I said before, everything you need to know is on there. Get studying.”
The archer turned and reached for the doorknob.
“And Barton?” Director Fury’s voice rang out.
“Yes sir?” Clint looked at him.
“I expect you to be Head Analyst by the time we pull you.”
The archer gave a strained smile. “Of course, Director.”
Running his hand through his hair, Clint left the closet- sorry, information room- and made his way back to his “apartment.” The Avenger knew exactly why Fury had given him this probably long-lasting op. The Director was trying to get him away, let him heal. Fine. Clint could play Fury’s game. He doubted a little undercover op would help.
He started up the StarkFolder and began to read:
William Brandt: analyst